The Second Chance Café in Carlton Square

by Lilly Bartlett

  ‘Can you please change her?’ I ask. ‘I can’t really let go of Oscar or he’ll have a meltdown.’

  ‘I’d love to, but I’m just dealing with dinner,’ Daniel calls from the kitchen. ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine if you put him down for a second.’

  He does this all the time, coming across as helpful, parachuting in to save the day when it’s easy. Low-hanging fruit, that’s what he’s been picking. His basket is overflowing. Meanwhile, he leaves me stretching for the upper branches.

  I stomp upstairs with our children, one clinging to my neck and the other giggling and stinking to high heaven. This is living the dream.

  The next morning when I shove Daniel in the back, I feel a rush of satisfaction knowing he was in a deep sleep. ‘The twins are awake,’ I say, hauling myself upright. ‘Can you get their breakfast started while I change them? I was up till four with Oscar, the poor little thing. That tooth must be killing him. Didn’t you hear him?’

  ‘Mmm, no.’ He stretches. ‘I didn’t hear a thing.’

  Which really makes me want to shove him in the back again.

  He’s at his laptop when I finally get them downstairs after cleaning up the aftermath of two overpowered nappies. ‘Daniel. Their breakfast?’

  ‘Just checking an email. I’ll be two secs.’

  ‘Right,’ I mutter. ‘Never mind, don’t bother. I’ll do it.’

  ‘No, Em, I said I would, if you’ll just let me deal with this email. I’ve only come downstairs this minute.’

  ‘So have I! God, Daniel, you know they won’t sit in their chairs without food and I’m not going to let them start playing or I won’t get them fed and I have to get to the café early this morning. So I’m sorry you’d like a relaxing morning after your good night’s sleep!’

  I hate the way I sound, but it all just wells up out of me. I’ve turned into that person who screams at her husband, like some character off EastEnders when a fight breaks out at the Queen Vic.

  He’s on his feet before I can start on Act Two of my tirade (The Exclaiming of the Shrew). ‘Em, Em, calm down, I’ll make breakfast.’ He circles us all with his arms. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I do try, you know. I’m always trying.’ He kisses the top of my head and I let my cheek rest on his chest. I know he’s trying. He’s just no good at it.

  ‘Okay, you take them,’ I say, ‘but don’t let them loose. I’ll do breakfast. I can do it faster.’

  ‘I said I’d do breakfast and I will,’ he says. ‘I’ll do the email later. This is more important.’

  I sigh. ‘But you won’t do it right and you’ll leave a mess and then I’ll just have to do it anyway.’

  ‘God damn it, Emma,’ he whispers. ‘How do you know I’ll do it wrong when you never even give me the chance?’

  ‘I don’t have time this morning,’ I say, passing our children off to him. ‘I’ll be a minute. It’s just easier this way.’

  He goes back to the dining room with Grace and Oscar.

  The twins love the play area at the café. With the floor covered in bouncy rubber mats and foamy bumpers lining every edge of the low octagon-shaped barrier of their little world, they only hurt themselves when they hurl toys at each other. At least I can get some café work done in between squawks for attention. It’s exactly what I imagined when I thought up the café, only with more customers. At the moment, this is really just a very expensive day-care centre.

  After not coming to the party because they didn’t want to take my free tea (You’ve got a business to run, dear), Carl and Elsie are fixtures in the café now. They turn up just after we open to sit in their booth, sipping tea from Philippa’s beautiful cups before they go off to do their shopping at the market. They do like a rummage around in their memories over a cuppa.

  Elsie was no homemaker like I’d assumed. Well, you would assume it, wouldn’t you, to look at her. In her eighties and conventional as you like, she’s the stereotypical gran who raised her family and had tea on the table every night when her husband got home from work.

  Except she’s not that person at all. She stayed single and worked for forty years in the Foreign Service as a French translator. She speaks other languages too – though she corrects Carl when he says she’s fluent in those – and she’s lived in countries in Africa that I’ve barely heard of. There’s a lot going on underneath that beehive hairdo of hers.

  Carl loves to brag about her. ‘Elsie met George Pompidou, you know,’ he tells me. ‘She translated for Ted Heath when they met.’

  Pompidou, Pompidou. The name rings a bell. ‘As in the building in Paris?’

  ‘That’s right, dear, the French president,’ Elsie says, making my ignorance sound like the right answer. ‘The museum was named after him. He was lovely, quiet and very down-to-earth, no airs and graces.’

  ‘What about Ted Heath?’ I ask. Mum and Dad weren’t fans, but then they are of a different political stripe.

  ‘Curmudgeonly,’ she says.

  My parents will love that.

  Carl and Elsie are the only regulars apart from the guy who uses the café as his personal charging station. He sits there long enough to fossilise, but he hasn’t brought his toothbrush in again, so maybe he tops that up in another café. I’ve got him paying for pots of tea now, but only by charging him for hot water and putting up a sign over his head that says ‘No Outside Food or Drinks Please’.

  Just as Carl and Elsie start for the door on their way to the market, there’s a commotion outside. But they hardly bat an eye at the noisy crowd. Well, they did live through the Blitz. Before I can see what’s going on, the café starts filling up, with Lou and Joseph in the lead.

  We’ve been getting a few stragglers from the leafleting runs they do each morning, but nothing like this. There must be at least thirty Chinese men and women crowding between the tables, all chattering to each other. They’re mostly older, some in matchy-matchy North Face-type hiking jackets.

  The beardy electricity scrounger glares at the interruption. He must think his £2 pots of tea buy him a private room.

  ‘Great, innit, boss?’ Joseph says with a grin splitting his face. ‘Me and Lou got them from in front of the Tube station. They’re stoked to be here.’

  They do seem to love the café. Everyone is taking photos like they’ve never seen a teapot before. Or a child.

  I wade through the crowd as they close in around the twins’ play area. Oscar and Grace don’t seem to mind the attention, but I don’t want a bunch of strangers taking pics of my babies. Climbing into the pen, I gather the children to me and turn away from the cameras as subtly as I can. My back seems to be as interesting as my children. I can hear them all snapping away behind me. How strange.

  It’s also strange that nobody is sitting. They’re just wandering around with their phones and iPads held out in front of them, like those tour groups you see in front of Buckingham Palace.

  ‘Lou?’ I call over to her. ‘Maybe you can get behind the bar and ask if anyone needs a drink. Joseph, why don’t you take the glass domes off the cakes.’

  Sure enough, people start gathering expectantly in front of the bar when Lou suggests drinks. ‘Who’s first?’ she asks. ‘Anyone? How about you, ma’am?’ She points at one woman who’s aiming her iPad at the Gaggia. ‘What would you like?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ she says with a smile. She’s about four feet tall with wrinkles criss-crossing her face, which is partially hidden by her khaki canvas sun hat.

  ‘No, what do you want to drink? Coffee? Tea? We have herbal.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  Lou glares at Joseph. ‘I told you this wouldn’t work,’ she says. ‘Stupid idea.’

  Now that the paparazzi flash mob has moved to the bar, I scoot behind it to join Lou and Joseph. That’s when I glimpse the leaflet that the woman is clutching.

  ‘Pardon me, may I see that?’

  I stare at the photo. ‘Would someone like to tell me why it says “RIPPER” across the front of o
ur café?’ It’s scrawled with big fat black indelible marker.

  ‘Tell her, Captain Shortcut,’ Lou says. ‘It was your idea.’

  ‘You said to get the punters in, boss, so we did,’ he says proudly. ‘We took the initiative, just like you’ve been telling us. They all meet in front of the Tube station. Tourists. We saw the opportunity and adjusted our marketing to meet a need.’

  ‘A need for tea and cake?’ I say hopefully, though I think I know where this is heading.

  He shakes his head. ‘A need for a story, boss. We sold the café as a piece of local history, and they’ve all come to see it.’ He turns to the crowd. ‘Hashtag secondchancecafé if you’re on Instagram.’ Then back to his explanation. ‘They came up to us as soon as we got there, like they’ve been waiting for the chance.’

  ‘Yeah, they were waiting for the Jack the Ripper tour,’ Lou adds. ‘He told them this is one of the old pubs where the Ripper met his victims. They think they’re on the tour.’

  I pinch the bridge of my nose to try to stop the headache that’s building there. ‘So they’re not here because it’s a café or because they want to buy anything.’ That explains all the photos. ‘What else are they expecting? Shall I get a knife from the kitchen to show them? Maybe some fish guts from Kell’s van to make it look authentic?’

  Joseph perks up. ‘Could we?’

  ‘No! Joseph, I appreciate your… ingenuity, but you can’t get people here under false pretences. We’re trying to build up a regular customer base, not just sell coffee once to people who’ll never come back. There are only so many tourists you can lure away from the Tube station. I’m sorry, but we can’t keep them. You’ll need to take them back so they can do the real tour.’ It’ll be a shame if they get home at the end of their holiday with nothing but photos of cakes to show their friends.

  After the tour group follows Lou and Joseph back to the Tube, it’s just me, the twins and the beardy tweed man in the café. After the initial interruption, he went straight back to his laptop, where he types like he’s got a grudge against his keyboard. I wonder what he does for work that lets him faff around in the café all day. It must be night work at a bar or something. He looks trendy enough for it.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ I call over from the twins’ area.

  ‘I don’t need more hot water, thanks,’ he says. He’s not rude about it, not at all. Just matter-of-fact. He goes back to assaulting his laptop.

  ‘No, I just wondered why you’re here every day. Do you work?’

  He pushes his thick frames back up on his nose. Now that I’ve seen him every day, I can see that he’s only in his twenties like me. I’ve never really taken the time to look properly at a hipster. They’re all of a certain type, riding their fixie bikes, waiting around the barber shops for a weekly grooming or drinking their soy lattes.

  This one is actually quite good-looking. What I can see of his face is tanned and angular and he has long-lashed eyes of a shade other than brown. I haven’t looked that closely. But his bushy dark beard makes him look a bit like a Christmas elf. ‘I am working,’ he says. ‘I do marketing. Mostly for companies in the City. It’s boring.’

  It takes me a second to work out that he has a lovely Welsh lilt.

  ‘I’d go mad if I worked in the flat on my own all day,’ he continues. ‘It’s better to have people around.’

  We both stare at the empty tables and chairs. ‘We’re not exactly Leicester Square in here,’ I tell him. ‘But I know what you mean. I felt like I was going mad when I first had the twins. Being at home all day, I was desperate to talk to someone. Anyone.’ And here I go again, talking to anyone. I laugh to myself. ‘You can see why solitary confinement is considered torture,’ I say. ‘At least you’re able to leave your flat. I mean, you haven’t got children there who need you. I’m assuming. Does your whole company work from home?’

  When he nods I wonder, Do they go out to cafés to work too?

  As I consider his beard and dorky specs and his tweed suit, I realise I’m incredibly envious of him and his colleagues. They probably get cushy assignments from their boss – even if they are boring – and regular year-end bonuses and they meet for Christmas parties where they get pissed so they can work up the courage to corner their secret crushes for a snog and then get told off in January by HR.

  ‘Some have office shares,’ he answers, slicing through my visions of mistletoe and verbal warnings. ‘They’re pricey, though. It’s not worth it just to have somewhere to sit.’ At least he looks contrite about camping out in my café all day to save himself office rent.

  But it does spark an idea from somewhere inside my sleep-deprived brain. ‘What if your colleagues had a cheaper option for working? Do you think they’d go there instead of a shared office?’

  ‘Are you thinking about here? They probably would, at least the ones who live nearby. It’s easy to work in here. Nice and quiet.’ He grimaces. ‘Sorry. I know that’s probably not an advantage for you.’

  ‘Well, we have only been open a little while. If you think you know of someone else who might like to come here to work, maybe you could tell them? I’d even do you a deal. What’s your name? Leo? Leo, what if we offered you a free sandwich for every colleague you get to come in here during the week? If you got five people to come in and work with you, then that’s your weekly lunches paid for.’

  That’s catching his interest.

  And his eyes are green. Golden-green.

  ‘They’d have to get a tea or coffee while they’re here, but it’s a lot cheaper than renting a desk. What do you think?’

  He nods. ‘You’d need Wi-Fi, since most of the cafés have it, but I’ll take that deal, thanks very much. I am getting a bit hungry.’ He sits up straighter in his chair. ‘I could ring someone now?’

  Maybe the way to my business will be through Leo’s stomach. Now I’m glad we got Magenta the Sandwich Whisperer in. I might even look for free-range carrots.

  And if it works for the beardy brigade, then why couldn’t it work for others? Maybe Elsie and Carl can be bribed to get their friends in here too. It’s worth a try since the only people who’ve come in so far are probably wondering what floral teapots have to do with Jack the Ripper.

  Chapter 13

  Our friends have always been there for me when I’ve really needed help. That was never truer than when we had to figure out how to have a huge fancy wedding on a shoestring, thanks to Dad being too proud to let Daniel’s parents help with any of the costs. Everyone pitched in with ways to get us champagne and chocolate-dipped strawberries, designer shoes and handmade bridesmaids’ dresses, live entertainment and horse-drawn carriages to the reception. At least, that’s what my in-laws saw on the day. If they’d looked closely, they’d have realised it wasn’t all quite what it seemed.

  And before that, when Dad could no longer work because of the MS, it was the vicar who found me the job at the Vespa dealership. That kept some money coming into the house. Auntie Rose’s friends turned up at least once a week with ‘extra’ roast chicken or beef stew that they claimed they couldn’t eat, which meant Mum didn’t have to do all the cooking while looking after Dad too.

  So I shouldn’t be surprised that when I threw myself into the bosom of our tribe for help finding customers for the café, they came up trumps.

  Not surprised, but so very grateful.

  ‘Joseph, can you please check if Mrs Ishtiaque’s table needs more water?’ She’s waving to me from amidst a sea of colourful sarees.

  She was the first to turn up after I asked for help. ‘Hello, dear,’ she’d called from the café door. ‘Do you mind if we’re joining you? I’ve brought you curry leftovers for your tea. My girls weren’t wanting any.’

  ‘You don’t have to bribe me to come in, Mrs Isthtiaque, you’re always welcome here.’

  She’d come through the door with a carrier bag in front of her and her friends backing her up. Together they made quite an entrance, though knowing them a bit
now, it was probably the last thing they wanted. Huddled together and shyly smiling, their colourful fluttering scarves and flowing sarees made everyone glance over. Which only sent them into a closer huddle.

  ‘Please, come in,’ I’d said again. ‘How about this table? I think it’s got just about enough room for eight if you squeeze. Really, Mrs Ishtiaque, I’m so glad you’re here. All of you!’ Their thanks danced around the table on a melodious wave.

  ‘It is nice to be out of our homes,’ she said, adjusting her deep aqua scarf over her head. ‘Your mum said you were needing customers. And we have an ultimate motive too.’ Her look darted to her friends, who all nodded their encouragement. ‘We are learning better English, Emma. We meet every week in our homes and I am teaching them.’ She grinned. ‘Because my English is being perfect, of course. Ha ha ha! I am making a joke but without a joke – we wanted to know if it is all right to be practising here?’

  ‘Of course it is,’ I told them all, hardly able to keep my gratitude under control.

  Only then did she pass me the curry, I noticed. ‘We will all be having drinks too. We will not be having free lunchtimes.’

  They’d need to work on their idioms, but they were true to their word. They always order tea and a slice of cake each, even though they never eat more than two bites and take the rest home wrapped carefully in a paper napkin.

  Their rapid-fire Bengali floats over the café now, rising and falling with the tales they’re telling. I’m not sure how much English study gets done and I can’t understand a word, but it’s easy to see when someone gets to a good bit of gossip based on all the hand-flapping.

  ‘I’m just getting another slice of cake for Leo’s table,’ Joseph says. ‘We’re out of the chocolate Guinness and the chocolate avocado cake now, boss. We can probably do with whole cakes next time.’

  People can’t get enough of the Mad Batter’s cakes. They come in looking for their sweet buttery fix, and cocoa powder is their drug of choice.

  ‘I can bring Mrs Ishtiaque more water,’ says Lou, wiping her hands on a tea towel and filling one of Mum’s teapots. On the way back from their table she stops at the children’s area. Grace crows as soon as she sees her. That catches Oscar’s attention. Lou blows them raspberries that reduce my children to fits of laughter.